


Breeding Cycle

by teh_gelfling



Series: Bits and Bobs [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bestiality, Heatfic, M/M, Mechpreg (implied), Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teh_gelfling/pseuds/teh_gelfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have written a thing. I am thoroughly embarrassed that I have written this thing. It is So Bad.</p><p>Also, to me, Bob is not so much an animal as a very simple-minded mech who can't speak. He's not unintelligent, just not intelligent in the same ways that most mechs are.</p><p>If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Breeding Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> I have written a thing. I am thoroughly embarrassed that I have written this thing. It is So Bad.
> 
> Also, to me, Bob is not so much an animal as a very simple-minded mech who can't speak. He's not unintelligent, just not intelligent in the same ways that most mechs are.
> 
> If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.

His frame was warm.  
  
No, cancel that. His frame was hot. And not just in the sexy meaning of the word. And there was an itch in his interface array that just kept building and wouldn't go away no matter what he did.  
  
He'd tried self-servicing.  
  
His spike wouldn't extend and his fingers just couldn't reach far enough no matter how far he shoved them into his valve. He'd gotten his entire hand in up to his wrist. He'd touched his ceiling node. Primus, but that had been a spectacular overload. But the fragging itch would not stop.  
  
Of course there was no one around. No one to help him get this itch out of his systems.  
  
Chrr-whine.  
  
Okay, there was Bob. An Insecticon. Not a mech. Not anyone who could assist him.  
  
Or was he?  
  
The critter had been unusually attentive since just before Sunstreaker had noticed his core temps rising. Nuzzling him, stroking golden plating with his little secondary hands, dragging energon cubes over when he woke from overload-induced recharge.  
  
The whine repeated, followed by a click-chirp. Sunstreaker looked up to find his companion sitting there at the end of the berth, helm tilted, antennae perked, and holding a glowing cube of energon. He chittered excitedly when the golden mech pulled his hand from his valve and sighed. All four optics were locked on the dripping valve and a small tremor shivered through the Insecticon's frame while yellow antennae twitched rapidly.  
  
Did Insecticons have spikes? And did he really just think that? Yes, yes he did, because he'd just come to the conclusion that he would do anything if it would rid him of that Pit-damned itch. He patted the woven metalmesh covering of the berth between his legs. “Come here, Bob.”  
  
The full-body wiggle was kind of adorable, he had to admit. And really, he'd expected to be pounced the moment the words left his vocaliser, but Bob very carefully climbed up onto the soft padding. He held out the energon, and only after Sunstreaker had taken it did he return his attention to the junction of those grey thighs. Antennae twitched at it, then, when Sunstreaker made no motion to stop him, he buried his face in pelvic plating.  
  
Blue optics flared white when his valve registered an intrusion and his helm thunked back into the wall he had propped himself against while self-servicing. Something long, slender, and very agile was squirming inside him and ohprimus it felt good. So much better than his fingers, or that false spike that lay abandoned off to the side after he'd discovered that his fingers actually did better than it did.  
  
Bob's tongue retracted into his mouth and he moved up over Sunstreaker, all four hands moving the mech around. Onto his front. Aft up, legs spread, but not too wide. There. Proper mating position. He chirred happily, excited that he'd be helping to increase their swarm's numbers. Right now it was just the two of them, and that was hardly enough to defend against the Others.  
  
Two strong primary hands gripped Sunstreaker's shoulders as Bob released his spike. It jutted long and thick below his belly, and if Sunstreaker had been able to see it, he might not be as eager as he was at that moment. Or maybe he would. Thick, sharp ribs adorned the underside while backward-facing barbs decorated the head. As the Insecticon got more excited, his already thick spike grew in diameter, and those ribs began to extend away from the main body of the shaft.  
  
Bob hitched his aft up enough that his tip should be at the right angle for penetration, then pushed forward. He caught on the edge of Sunstreaker's valve and paused, readjusted himself, and thrust heavily into the slightly-gaped opening. His mate shouted and he growled possessively, giving more little thrusts to seat himself entirely into the mech. Even with all the preparation his mate had done, it was tight and slow-going, what with his spike still engorging and being unable to pull out at all to get momentum for a proper thrust. Maybe he should have pushed the issue earlier when he wasn't ready to pop? But this was his mate's first breeding cycle, and he didn't want him to choose another to mate with next time because he wasn't patient with him. Bob was a good mate, and he was going to prove it beyond any doubt.  
  
Little secondary hands settled on either side of Sunstreaker's helm, above the fins, as Bob worked his way deeper and deeper. The golden mech's valve was stretched nearly to its limit and yet he still pushed back into each nudging thrust. Little grunt-whines came from the Insecticon as he shuffled position slightly. His mate's valve was very tight. He wasn't even halfway seated yet. As ready as he was, the only way to fully penetrate would very possibly cause his mate some pain, and Bob did not want to cause his mate pain.  
  
He chuffed and nuzzled the black helm, licking lightly at one of the fins on the sides. Another nuzzle and an apologetic whine, and Bob reared back, only to slam his weight forward into the golden mech. Sunstreaker screamed as the Insecticon's spike seemed to split him in half when it hit the back of his valve. Pain and pleasure signals mixed and he couldn't tell exactly what he was feeling. He was just glad that Bob wasn't moving right then.  
  
Yes, Bob was a good mate. See how good? He would let his mate recover. Bob was the best choice for a mate. And this one's valve fit him perfectly. Maybe a bit tight, but that wouldn't be a problem if they began the mating earlier in the breeding cycle. His mate eventually stopped clenching around him and the only scent on him was that of the heat and arousal. Bob waited until Sunstreaker twitched his hips into his own, then started grinding into that aft, his spike giving little twitches of its own in that burning heat surrounding it.  
  
Ohh, Pit, that was exactly what he needed! The spike in him, filling him so full already that when the Insecticon finally came, the transfluid would have nowhere to go but into his gestation tank. And there was no telling how many times Bob could get off before he exhausted himself. No telling how full he'd be when they were done.  
  
Bob whined as Sunstreaker squirmed on him. Was he supposed to draw the breeding out, or did his mate just want it to be over with? He wiggled at the idea of making it last; pleasure, even when caused by breeding cycle, was to be enjoyed.  
  
He lowered his face to his mate's helm again, nuzzling the lower edge, tongue snaking out to tease neck cables. Optics squinted happily at the sharp gasp and wanton moan, and he licked the back of one of the fins right where it joined the helm. The writhing of Sunstreaker's frame below his  sent heat flashing through his systems, and his set of smaller hands gripped the black helm tighter, attempting to hold him still. If his mate kept that up, there would be no drawing the breeding out. Instinct would take over and that would be it. He rocked his hips, his mate moving with him.  
  
The golden mech squirmed again and let out a throaty moan. Bob's antennae perked, listening as Sunstreaker began to whisper things that Bob had no context for. But the voice they were expressed in definitely got his interest. Oh, yes. Much interest. He rocked them again and wiggled, the sensations juddering up and down his spinal strut and gathering at the base of his spike.  
  
With every little movement Bob made, Sunstreaker was driven closer to the edge of overload. His valve was on fire with pleasure, with even more heat pooling low in his abdomen. Tingles swept through him in waves, always ending at his valve, adding to the inferno. Bob's spike throbbed within him. The Insecticon was so close. _Sunstreaker_ was so close, and he could barely stand it. He _needed_ the overload, needed to get rid of that itch within him that was being so marvellously scratched. He rolled his hips once, twice, and pushed back into the bug's spike. He felt it twitch against his cervical valve and shuddered in anticipation. He pushed back again and twisted his hips and felt the first spurt of the Insecticon's overload.  
  
Bob keened. His mate did not want to wait, didn't want to draw out the pleasure. He kept _moving_ in delicious ways on his spike, sending charge crackling over the yellow and purple plating. Then he did that _twist_ , and Bob was lost to the sensations. Hips jerked and his spike throbbed thickly, expelling the contents of his transfluid tank deep into his mate as he clutched on to shoulders and helm with both sets of hands, optics squinted with the pleasure.  
  
Sunstreaker rode out Bob's climax on the very knife-edge of his own, and yet unable to attain completion. He squirmed and twisted as much as he could, and nothing would send him over. Then Bob _moved_ in him, friction lighting up sensor nodes and he lasted two strokes and screamed out his overload. His valve tried to clench around the invading spike, but as thick as it was, the clenching was more like a gentle caress.  
  
Bob thrust through his mate's overload, the ripples in the walls around him building him to another of his own. At least he could move now. That overload had reduced the pressure in his spike just enough that his mate's valve didn't constrict him any more. And move he did. Fast, slow, smooth, rough. Never stopping, always in motion. Angling himself to reach as many sensor clusters as he could on each stroke. Sharp, quick, jerky movements through his overloads, spilling himself over and over again into his mate, the soon-to-be carrier of their creations.  
  
Sunstreaker was full. So full. So much transfluid he didn't even slosh. Packed full of Insecticon spike and spunk, and still Bob kept going. Transfluid painted their thighs in a coat of silvery-lavender and puddled on the berth underneath them. The golden mech was trapped in an endless cycle of overload, and his energy levels were tanking. Notes and warnings kept popping up in his HUD.  
  
Breeding protocols ended.  
  
Energon levels down to 20%.  
  
Gestation protocols enabled.  
  
Gestation protocols active.  
  
Energon levels down to 15%. Refuel necessary.  
  
Energon levels down to 10%. Refuel necessary.  
  
Energon levels down to 5%. Refuel necessary. Shutdown imminent.  
  
He went limp under Bob, completely strutless, as the next overload cascaded through his systems.  
  
  
  
Bob knew something was wrong as soon as his mate slumped. Pulling himself out of his rut was hard, but Sunstreaker was far more important. His mate was unresponsive, even when Bob bodily rolled him over.  
  
He nudged Sunstreaker's face, then patted at it with his little hands. The mech twitched a bit, and Bob redoubled his efforts. When his mate's optics opened, they were dim, and that had Bob scrambling for that energon cube he'd brought to his mate before.  
  
Yep, there it was, and still sealed. He pulled it to his mate and held it out, prodding the mech to drink it.  
  
When Sunstreaker finally managed to crack the seal and take a small pull from the cube, Bob scurried around the room, looking to see if there were other sources of fuel for his mate. He couldn't find any, and this distressed him. He climbed gently back onto the berth and nudged the golden mech. Mate will be okay, yes? This one must leave to hunt for fuel. This one knows where fuel is easy prey. The hunt will not be long.  
  
Once satisfied that Sunstreaker wasn't going into stasis lock, he scrambled off the berth again and out the door.  
  
It didn't register to Sunstreaker until the Insecticon came back, with energon in tow and Ratchet not far behind, that he'd left with transfluid and lubricant streaked all over his belly, pelvic unit, and legs.  
  
He levelled a glare at the medic and said, “I don't want to hear it.”


End file.
